His Trash Talk Made Me Cry. It Also Made Me Tough.

My dad and I both know he can beat my ass in chess. He always has, and I have little doubt he always will. When he was in middle school he'd win tournaments–bring home trophies nearly as tall as him. Because of his intellect and compassion, I tend to forget that my dad's far tougher than he lets on. But I know he wouldn't hesitate to beat my ass in chess if I challenged him, so it's been a minute since we last played.

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He taught me the fundamentals of how to play: how to set up the board, where the pieces go, the rules of the game, basic openings, and endgame strategy. While I was still new to chess, he'd let me handicap him; we'd play with up to half of his pieces already cleared off the board. It didn't make a difference. If anything, it made me think I had a chance.

The prospect of winning against him was enticing, but I didn't have a lot of fight in me. My middle school was too small to cut players or have tryouts, so my dad encouraged me to play sports despite my lack of skill or interest. Even then, I wasn't aggressive when it counted. In football they made me a center, but I didn't fight hard enough. They made me a basketball center, too, but I didn't take enough shots.

I know he wouldn't hesitate to beat my ass in chess if I challenged him, so it's been a minute since we last played.

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When I got older, something fundamentally changed about playing chess against my dad. He had always been better than me, but he started to get competitive. Neither "aggressive" nor "competitive" are words I'd typically use to describe my dad, but he assumed a new persona when we played. He started shit-talking.

"Oh, you're going to move there?" (Yes, Pa, I'm gonna move there.)

"Are you so sure you want to do that?" (Not really sure about this or most other decisions, but I'll stick with it.)

"That's an interesting move." (Pop, they're all interesting moves if you think about them for too long.)

"It's the beginning of the end!" (Thanks for the color commentary.)

It would get under my skin–it still gets under my skin–and I'd second guess myself. Even if I beat him at a game, he still managed to win.

At first I thought maybe that was just the way he played. Then again, I don't remember watching my dad play anyone else, so how could I say for sure? I also don't remember ever playing anyone who'd talk like that during chess. In one of those early games I asked him, "What's with the talking? I thought chess was a gentlemanly pastime." He told me that "street chess" was a different game. Street chess? Apparently, at some point, our living room had turned into Washington Square Park, and I was being hustled by my own father. I had a hard time believing him.

No matter the reason, my dad could get in my head to distract me from playing the game. Even our conversations became a form of mental chess. I decided to moved out of state for college. After that, not much chess–not much interaction in general. After college, I didn't move back home. Text messages and FaceTime calls were infrequent, and still are. But I convinced myself that if only I practiced more, or played tougher in real life, then maybe I'd be able to eventually beat him–a delusion at best.

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For my brother's 21st birthday, we all planned to meet in Las Vegas, and I started practicing: iPad chess every day, mentally preparing myself to block out the trash talk. I wanted to win. Badly. I walked around with a chip on on my shoulder. Beating my dad became a symbolic act of adulthood. If I could beat him through practice, hard work, and determination, then I could do practically anything. I imagined what I could do or say to throw him off his game–things I didn't fully mean, things that would devastate him to his core–for the sake of distracting him.

When I got older, something fundamentally changed about playing chess against my dad. He started shit-talking.

We played a few rounds of chess in Vegas, and I lost them all. When we played, the shit-talking came as anticipated, but my dad mentioned that I was better, more aggressive. Still, I took the losses hard–the mental game and trash talk got to me. I cried.

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Why? Why would you still try to mess with my head? We hardly interact as it is. Couldn't we just play a stupid game of chess?

If I couldn't learn how to handle shit from my own dad, who actually loved me, what would I do when it came from people who didn't care?

We still don't see each other in person very often, and being on opposite sides of the country hasn't made that any easier. But in the past few years, his questions during our occasional calls have changed slightly and his approach has changed greatly: "You're moving to the East Coast? Do you know what you'll do out there? That's an interesting move. We wish you the best of luck. Hope you make it out there."

He's gotten better at listening, catching himself when he thinks he's talking too much, and I've gotten better at ribbing him and giving him shit back. He consistently tells me how much I've grown since the last time we saw each other.

And I am making it out here. I'm still pretty sensitive, but how to make a plan, anticipate changes, assess possibilities, and react quickly–I learned all those things and more on the chessboard. Next time my dad visits, I doubt I'll play him in a round of chess, but I'll make sure to give him shit if he doesn't beat a chess hustler in Washington Square Park.

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